


Stout heart

by belana



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Non-Graphic Violence, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 04:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11707122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belana/pseuds/belana
Summary: Bloodraven loved his half-sister Shiera Seastar, the most beautiful woman of her time. He asked for her hand in marriage a dozens of times, but each time she refused him, enjoying the way he, the true ruler of Westeros, was tormented by jealousy. She didn’t refuse to share bed with him, though.





	Stout heart

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Верное сердце](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10406085) by [Vemoro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vemoro/pseuds/Vemoro). 



**194 A.C.**

The hall was full of light: cressets on the walls were lit, there were golden candelabras set on tables and hanged from the painted ceiling. The bright light hurt his eyes, and Brynden rubbed his forehead. Musicians played lutes, harps and flutes while the bard who just finished singing a Myrrish love song was catching his breath.

The hall was ablaze with bright silks and glittering jewels; it looked like the whole Westeros decided to show off their riches. The left side of the hall where Dornishmen sat was the most garish: red, orange, bright blue and yellow finery; gold, garnets and opals, jade and agates, cat's eye and carneols. Martells, Yronwoods, Ullers, Fowlers, Vaiths were the new inhabitants of the Red Keep, they were an addition to the court. They all were dark-skinned, dark-haired and dark-eyed; they wore bright colors, were too noisy and talkative compared to dignified lords of the Reach and the Stormlands who were sitting on the other side of the hall as far as possible from the families with whom they've fought over Dorne not so long ago.

Brynden was very likely the most plainly-dressed guest at this gathering, he wore a doublet the color of dark smoke with insets of black silk. There was a white dragon with red eyes stitched on his chest. Brynden never wore rings or signets (they made it harder to shoot), and he wasn't fond of expensive trinkets.

He arrived from Raventree Hall to the Red Keep a week ago after receiving a private message from the King. Daeron was summoning him to court offering a place in the small council, and Brynden thought that fate finally gave him a chance. He was a king's bastard, and his mother was of noble birth, but he had no title, lands or money so he had a lot in common with any hedge knight.

Servants quietly scurried between tables, deftly changing dishes and refilling goblets with Arbor gold.

Ambrose Butterwell, Hand of the King, was sitting to Daeron's right, devouring stewed rabbit stuffed with bacon and mushrooms. Daeron himself watched his courtiers with hooded eyes, not touching food or drink. He followed the advice of the Grand Maester to drink not more than a goblet of Dornish wine a day (which Brynden found to be too sour for his taste). Admittedly, Brynden disliked any wine — Dornish, Arbor or palm one from the Summer Isles. He always carried with him a small flask with herb tea that he personally made. Brynden refused any drink offered and filled his empty goblet or cup with his brew himself. He knew that such gestures only added to rumors about his practices of black magic and sorcery, but he didn't care. He was named Bloodraven when whisperers thought he didn't hear. He wasn't offended, more like flattered: ravens were supposed to be eerie. And he learned long ago: the more people fear you the less enemies would dare to attack you.

Their bastard brother Daemon Blackfyre, whom the King preferred to always keep by his side, was present at the feast too. Brynden couldn't stand Daemon mostly because of his friendship with Aegor Rivers, his longtime rival and sworn enemy. They all were half-brothers: king Daeron, haughty Daemon, acrimonious Aegor and Brynden who hated all his bastard half-brothers, especially Aegor. Their implacable hatred became a legend.

Brynden rarely visited the Red Keep, but Aegor attended the court even less often, spending his time in Stone Hedge or at Daemon's estate on the Blackwater's bank. Brynden preferred not to cross paths with either Aegor or his foul family. If it was up to him he'd level the Brackens' castle with the ground and salt the place foot by foot so it became a barren wasteland.

Blackwoods and Brackens... Father added a cartload of burning coals to an almost extinguished fire of decades-long feud. Aegor couldn't forgive that he chose Melissa Blackwood, Brynden's mother, over his own mother, and that there was a feast at Melissa's castle the day when the mistress that took her place, Aegor's aunt, was beheaded for treason, and House Bracken fell out of favour.

The two brothers, one of Blackwoods, the other of Brackens, first met twelve years ago during a tourney hosted by Medgar Tully and immediately jumped down each other's throats. Aegor was older, taller and stronger. He hurled Brynden into dirt and beat his face with his fists. When knights ran up and finally dragged him away from almost suffocated Brynden, he was shouting that he'd burn Raventree Hall, but before that he'd cut out the eyes of the Blackwoods' bitch and her sickly freak. Brynden wheezed back that he wouldn't have enough time because he'd soon die of poisoning with the rest of the Brackens.

They met two more times during tourneys: during a mêlée Aegor crushed Brynden's shield and broke his arm. The second time Brynden got luckier: he left a scar on Aegor's neck, almost cutting off his ear.

Aegor earned a nickname Bittersteel while Brynden received Dark Sister, a sword of true Valyrian steel, after the death of Dragonknight. Rumor had it that Aegor instantly became a quick-tempered grouch with ever ready cutting remarks after learning about the new owner of the legendary sword. Each time Brynden remembered that his heart filled with malicious joy. Although, he preferred his old bow carved out of white weirwood even to Dark Sister.

Brynden gulped the rest of his herb tea and for a moment felt refreshed. The feast tired him, smarting eyes started a headache. His neighbor on the right, lady Estermont, left for the open gallery to 'catch a breath of fresh air' leaning on the arm of her husband's young squire. He decided that he should leave the hall full of noise and blinding lights too. Tomorrow morning after a good night's sleep, refreshed and alert, he'll stand before the King and members of the small council.

Brynden stood up and headed for the door, looking straight ahead. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a blonde girl sitting at a table near the gallery turn around and staring at him. He slowed down, but the young beauty already bowed her head toward Daeron's eldest grandson Valarr and whispered into his ear.

Brynden almost forgot to breathe. _Is that little Shiera? You've grown, Shiera, and became a real beauty._..

She was sitting in the company of boys and girls of her age, mainly children of Dornish lords (squires with bright house sigils on their chests, and girl companions), under the care of lady Elia Dayne. White delicate face with unbelievably huge shining eyes attracted admiring stares from men and jealous ones from women. Shiera's silvery hair was coiffured into an elaborate hairdo held together with pearl combs. Dress the color of fresh snow with blue lining around sleeves and bodice exposed her narrow shoulders. Shiera sat without touching the back of her chair, and it was obvious from the first glance that she was the queen in this small kingdom of noble youths where the retinue would catch her every word trying to gain her approval or gentle smile.

Brynden saw his half-sister two or three times while visiting the Red Keep. Her mother died in childbirth, she had no other relatives so after her father's death king Daeron, Shiera's older brother, took care of her.

The girl turned around again, and their eyes met. Her one eye was blue, the other green, so for a second it seemed to Brynden that she looked asquint. Shiera smiled at him graciously (a common courtesy), he bowed his head in return. When he rose he saw a pearl comb at the back of Shiera's head.

She came to him in a dream that night. Smiling slightly, Shiera stared at him with her mismatched eyes as if waiting for something, but he, dumbstruck, watched her pupils dilate, blacking out blue and green irises like two dark wells.

After the meeting of the small council where the lords were not very much pleased with his appointment as the master of whisperers Brynden went to the godswood. He hoped to calm his outrage at foul-mouthed Butterwell, whose loud whispering _Bastard is too young, and all these rumors of sorcery_ … was heard by everyone, including Brynden. He was infuriated by bewildered expression on the face of lord Penrose, the master of coin, and disdainful snort of Rodrik Martell, the master of laws. Brynden also wanted to ask gods if he was right in accepting the post. The position of the master of whisperers was the lowest and least respected. What occupation could be less fitting for a knight than gathering reports from spies, nosing and sneaking about?

 The palace garden, several acres in size, had in the middle a thicket of huge sentinel trees that surrounded several white weirwood ones. The godswood was hardly ever visited. Probably only Blackwoods and their bannermen worshipped the old gods of all the noble Houses south of the North.

Brynden touched white bark in deep shakes and stared at the bloodied face. Eyes that oozed red tears stared back at him in sadness. He mentally tried to touch the heart of the tree — through bark, leaves, layer by layer — until he felt the presence of the Ancient one who sent vision-answers that were more like fragments of dreams. As usual it was hard to find one who dwelled thousands of leagues away from the godswood of the castle, his voice was barely audible as if in a dream.

Smiling contentedly, Brynden left the godswood, full of strength as if he drank full flask of his brew at once. Bright sunlight hit his skin and eyes — he immediately put on the cape of his black silk cloak.

He heard voices ahead — male, female, childlike — and turned right into an alley with hedgerows where he stumbled into a gay procession of young ladies and their male friends, accompanied by a Kingsguard Ser Donnel in a white cloak, lady Elia and two septas. Young Shiera was heading it, wearing a light grey silk dress, covered in pearls and mother-of-pearl. Her hair was streaming down, plaited only at the sides and became a braid below her knees. It shined like melted silver in the sun. Obviously, the merry company had walked the gardens for a long time — they’ve already gathered some flowers and even made wraiths that adorned the girls’ heads. Shiera had the most elegant one made of tiny blue roses and green buds.

Shiera was the first to notice Brynden, frozen on the spot, and said loudly, “Greetings to you, Ser Brynden Rivers. I am very glad that gods allowed you to visit the Red Keep, where unfortunately you are a rare guest.”

He bowed and answered with all possible politeness, “I am glad that you recognized me too, Lady Shiera. Last time I was here you were eight years old. Now you are the most charming lady of all I know. Your beauty is truly blinding.”

The retinue, accompanying Shiera, stopped, and many curious eyes stared at his right cheek with the red birthmark. Only Shiera looked him in the eye as if not noticing his deformity. _Is it good manners of a lady? Does she want not to embarrass me? Or the other way around?_ There was no playful coquettishness in her eyes, no challenge, no haughty leniency, though. His heart was beating faster, his mouth went dry in agitation.

“You flatter me, Ser Brynden,” she said. “We were not introduced, but I remember you too. My nanny said that I had a half-brother of Blackwoods, and when you arrived with your mother, lady Blackwood, she showed you to me during a feast.”

“Is that so… It is an honour, Lady Shiera,” he said, not quite comprehending his own words.

Brynden could not take his eyes off her face, her white skin — smooth and as if translucent.

“For me too, Ser Brynden,” the girl continued. “I’ve heard about you and your victories. You won all the archers’ competitions during the tourney in Summerhall.”

“Your attention is flattering, Lady Shiera.”

“If you are a knight then where is your armor, Ser Brynden?” Valarr asked impudently.

“Oh, Prince Valarr…” Lady Dayne shook her head disapprovingly. “What an inappropriate and unwise question! Knights don’t wear armor all day long.”

“But they do!” Valarr said intently. “Ser Donell always does, while Ser Brynden doesn’t even have a sword!”

Brynden gritted his teeth. It looked like the insolent youth took after dull-witted Dondarrions without inheriting a single trait from his father, prince Baelor.

He folded away the flap of his cloak and showed Valarr the sheath with Dark Sister.

“I always carry an ancestral sword of House Targaryen,” Brynden said, “and I wield it well. I prefer a bow, though, it is a weapon of wise warriors.”

Valarr opened his mouth, intending to say something stupid again, but Shiera cut him short, “I want to give you a flower, Ser Brynden, as a defender of House Targaryen. Does that mean you are defending the royal family like a Kingsguard, even though you wear a black cloak?”

“That is correct, Milady,” he smiled. “I am your defender too. Such a generous gift of your hands will make me the happiest man in the land.”

Shiera carefully pulled out a green bud and a small rose out of her wraith and handed him both flowers. He accepted them, barely breathing. _I will marry her. I will certainly marry her. Now I don’t have anything to offer her, except my love, but I will gain high status at court in a year or two. I will do anything for her. I have enough patience and stubbornness_.

Oblivious to the world, Brynden watch at her retreating figure — a beautiful silhouette in a silvery halo. _I will wait for you, Shiera. Soon you will become my wife_.

 

**196 A.C.**

 

Brynden watched Shiera from a distance for a whole year without forcing himself upon her. He was a royal bastard, the master of whisperers, without money or lands. He could not lay any gifts at her feet apart from his brain and military skills. Why would Shiera care that he was a skillful archer or the fact that he gained  King Daeron’s trust after he figured out the court’s intrigues, though?

Brynden saw Shiera flower, becoming more desirable, he saw that the number of her faithful admirers grew. She turned fifteen, and there was no maid prettier, smarter or more tempting.

He stayed away from her retinue and suitors on purpose, occasionally exchanging a few compliments during feasts and social functions. Brynden’s every day was mapped out to the minute. His invisible army of spies regularly delivered numerous reports. False conjectures were discarded, he uncovered seeds of sedition that at first looked innocent. It was as if Brynden acquired a thousand secret eyes that watched over everything in Westeros. He never missed important news in reports that he passed on to the king during daily meeting of the small council.

Brynden studied intricate web of secret passages underneath the Red Keep, always finding new exits, dead ends and entrances. At first he cursed the man who ordered to build the damned labyrinth, Maegor the Cruel, without leaving a single map or clue. Brynden had to sketch it himself. Apart from that he trained with his bow and sword every day. He was good with the sword, but he was second to none with a bow. When Brynden took his bow made of weirwood white core he felt the weapon become a part of him. That tree grew in the Raventree godswood, and Brynden felt the magic of old gods every time he touched it.

King Daeron placed a hundred of archers under his command. In a year Brynden tripled that number and turned them into the best of Westeros. They were named the Raven’s Teeth. He insisted that every man of his was armed with a weirwood bow, and the treasury paid these extraordinary expenses.

Whisperers accurately reported about everything that went on in Shiera’s chambers: she studied Valyrian with a Dornish lady tutor, hosted her own small parties, went hawking in company of lady Dayne and a detachment of knights headed by Ser Donnel. An Oldtown poet called her _a sea star, beauty of all seas_ when praising her silvery hair and mismatched eyes. Since then the nickname Seastar stuck, Shiera was very flattered. Now she preferred sea-themed colors: navy, green, blue and silvery grey.

Brynden knew each and every bard who entertained guests at Shiera’s parties, admirers who already proposed to her. Some youngsters with a crush on Shiera professed their love and proposed every day despite constant refusals. Jealousy tormented Brynden, but he restrained himself — Shiera dismissed all suitors as if she were waiting for the one and only man.

Brynden was sure she was waiting for him, of course.

Only several months were left before Daemon Blackfyre’s vile rebellion, and Aegor Rivers was a frequent visitor to the Red Keep. He spent time with Daemon and untrustworthy knights of the Reach: Aubrey Ambrose, Gormon Peake and Quentyn Ball — and when he left his half-brother’s rooms he always visited Shiera. He started courting her, and eventually whisperers reported that Bittersteel wished to marry after Daemon Blackfyre would ascend the throne, replacing the rightful king.

If Brynden found Aegor that day he would have knocked him senseless and poured a whole flask of tears of Lys down his throat so that Brackens’ bastard would die in pain. He managed to control his rage, though, and later that evening Brynden gathered all intelligence of the last several weeks and reported to the king about the rebellion.

He did not apprehend Daemon with his family or traitor Aegor — they managed to slip past castle and city guards. Half of the lords supported the Black Dragon’s rebellion, and Westeros drowned in blood.

Brynden joined the King’s army and went after the rebels dreaming of meeting his abhorrent brother on a battlefield and planting an arrow in his each eye. Every time he went to archery training grounds he imagined Aegor instead of shooting targets.

Destiny had other plans, though: during the final battle Brynden’s first arrow hit twelve-year-old Aegon, the second one hit his twin brother, the third one ripped Daemon Blackfyre’s throat out when he bend over the bodies of his sons.

Black Dragon fell; the outcome of the battle was obvious. Furious Aegor managed to find Brynden in the midst of battle. They crossed swords, and Aegor, who wielded it better, gravely wounded Brynden and fled from the battlefield that was later named the Redgrass Field.

Against all odds Brynden survived and returned to the Red Keep, sharing the triumph of the Redgrass Field victors. He lost left eye and gained a new nickname Kinslayer among smallfolk, who hated him, and Blackfyre secret supporters.

 _Bloodraven, warlock, red-eyed demon, kinslayer, nephew slayer_ — what did it matter now when he could win Shiera’s heart? He was a hero who slain a rebellious Dragon, he was a lord and the King’s trusted man. She could not refuse him.

“You became even more beautiful since our last meeting, Lady Shiera,” he said and bowed low.

A strand of milky white hair covered his empty left eye socket. Shiera was sitting without touching the back of the chair as usual. A slipper covered in pearls peeked tantalizingly from under blue silk skirts. The dress revealed white shoulders, large sapphires gleamed in silver necklace. Shiera’s room was empty. The door to the next room where lady Dayne went when Brynden appeared was slightly open.

“The Battle of the Redgrass Field is turning into ballads,” Shiera smiled. “You came back a hero, Ser Brynden.”

There were plenty of songs, but the main characters in them were Baelor Breakspear and his brother Maekar, the hammer and the anvil. No bard wanted to sing about sorcerer and kinslayer.

“Lady Shiera…” Brynden said, swallowing a lump in his throat. “I ask you to become my wife.”

She stared at him bewildered and involuntarily touched her silver necklace.

“Marry me, Shiera,” he repeated, standing on one knee. “I love you. You will be happy with me.”

Shiera sighed quietly and looked away. Brynden’s heart sank — he already knew the answer.

“I regret to say that I have to decline, Lord Rivers.”

“You are not engaged,” he said dully. “Or is my information wrong?”

“Septa Delia insists that girls my age should not hurry to get married,” Shiera shrugged. “My heart is free, but now I have no wish to marry.”

“Alright, let’s not hurry.” Brynden saw a glimmer of hope in her answer. “We can postpone a wedding for a year, two years or three — as you wish, milady, but we will announce the engagement now.”

“I am sorry, Lord Rivers, I do not wish to announce engagement to you or anyone else.”

“Why, Shiera? Am I so disgusting?” Brynden burst out.

He stood up awkwardly, feeling smarting pain in the left eye like blows of a hammer.

“That’s beside the point,” she shook her head. “The point is I am not ready to marry.”

He waited for two days, and then approached lady Dayne.

“Alas,” she shook her head too, “the girl has nothing — no title or money — only a droplet of royal blood.”

And breathtaking beauty.

“After rebelling lords lost their heads, children and castles, though, no one wants to be connected to your late father’s bastards, Lord Rivers,” Elia Dayne continued.

“It proves my point: I am the most suitable husband for her now. Shiera is almost sixteen, she should have married long ago.”

“I have no right to force her into marriage with you. If King Daeron wishes it she will become your wife.”

Brynden winced annoyed. He already tested the waters in a conversation with Daeron and found it unpromising. The King clearly indicated that he would not approve the marriage of any royal bastard. Daeron doesn’t want his half-brothers and sisters to get married and have children. Black Dragon’s rebellion ruined everything. The King didn’t want the pretender’s history to repeat itself. He will oppose Shiera’s wedding and never approve my marriage.

“And I still insist, Lady Dayne,” he repeated forcefully. “Talk to her and persuade her to agree to my second proposal.”

“You’re hard to refuse, Lord Rivers, but if fifteen-year-old Shiera has enough character to withstand your passionate siege I think it is disgraceful for me to give in,” Elia Dayne smiled gently.

 

**200 A.C.**

 

She did answer his eighth letter with proposal.

Brynden carefully unfolded the parchment, sealed with pearly wax, with sweaty hands. It was the first message written in Shiera’s own hand — neat letters with small elegant flourishes as exquisite as the lady herself. Shiera wrote in Valyrian, she acknowledged only that dead language when writing.

_If you want to hear my answer, come to my rooms at the hour of the owl. We will talk in private, no one will interrupt us._

Suddenly he could not breathe in. Brynden read the letter again in flickering candlelight. Pearly seal started melting from the heat, and the room was filled with the scent of Shiera’s perfume — tangy bitter wormwood.

_If you want to hear my answer…  We will talk in private… No one will interrupt… Oh gods, she finally gave in! Finally she’s mine! My love… my Shiera!_

Blood pounded in his ears, his heart was beating wildly, so he carefully measured out a few grains of Sweet dream and dissolved them in water. After drinking the potion Brynden felt the heartbeat slowdown and breathe even out.  Now he was ready to go to Shiera’s rooms without looking like a tongue-tied youth confessing his love.

Brynden took an elegant silver ring covered with sapphires and emeralds out of a box containing two dried flowers — a tiny rose and a rose bud. He held it in his hands, then put it into the pocket of his jerkin.

Exiting through a secret passage under the castle, he turned into the corridor on his right and in fifty five steps ended up in front of a narrow winding staircase. He walked up and opened an unlocked door, concealing another secret passage.

A castle guard was positioned at the end of a long corridor, but a black coat hid Brynden, making him almost invisible. The door to Shiera’s chambers was unguarded.

At first he raised his hand to knock, but then pushed the door carefully, and it opened.

The fireplace was roaring in a small room. Shiera, dressed in a thin white gown, was sitting in front of the fire, — out of habit not touching the back of the chair. She was reading a book with leather binding and silver clasps.

Upon hearing footsteps she raised her eyes and smiled.

“I’ve been waiting for eternity,” she said, standing up.

 Loose wavy hair came up to her knees like a cloud of sea foam.

“I’ve waited much longer,” he whispered.

Brynden wanted to say that he loved her and that he’d be a faithful husband and protector to her, but Shiera ran up to him and touched his cheek with her narrow hand.

Brynden’s breath caught in his throat. Shiera’s fingers seemed icy against his skin. His throat went dry. Not knowing what to say, he covered her hand with his own, then put the arm around her waist and hugged her.

Shiera threw back her head as if inviting him to kiss her — he pressed his lips to her half-opened mouth. The kiss lasted for a while, Shiera leaned into him. The scent of wormwood drove him crazy.

She shrugged her shoulders, and the silk dress fell to the floor. Brynden gasped — she was naked underneath.

“Is something wrong, Brynden?”

She wound her arms around his neck and leaned back a little as if heavy locks weighted her down. Brynden saw her white neck, a hollow between her collarbones, small breasts like two snow-white swells with pink peaks…

“You’re so beautiful!” he said hoarsely. “You can drive even a statue mad.”

“You’re most surely not made of stone,” she rubbed against him and laughed. “You’re burning like you’ve drunk Wildfire!”

She slipped from the embrace, took him by the hand and led him to the bed chamber.

The fireplace was burning brightly there too, the air smelt of lemon and wormwood, and the bed, taking up half of the room, was covered with snow-white sheets.

Shiera helped him to get rid of his clothes and pushed him onto the bed.

“Are you satisfied now, Brynden?” she asked, sitting close with her feet tucked under her.

Her hair completely covered her body like a pearly cloak. Her mismatched eyes seemed black in the dim light.

“I’ve dreamed about this for years,” he said and embraced her.

 

* * *

 

She raised on one elbow and poured two goblets of wine from a pitcher standing on a table near the bed. Downing the wine she offered the second goblet to Brynden, but he politely refused. Shiera grimaced, sat up in bed and with pleasure drank the second one too. She moved a platter of fruit closer and nipped off a large grape.

The fireplace was behind her, golden flecks danced in her hair.

“This is not your first time, is it?” Brynden asked tightly.

Jealousy was eating him from the inside. He stood up, trying to ignore shameless Shiera savouring ripe grapes. She smiled at him as if the question amused her.

“Why is it so important for you? Trust me, if I made love for the first time everything would have been different. Inexperienced lovers are the worst.”

Her every word pained him like a needle to the heart.

“I just want to know.” He jerked his breeches on.

“Why?” Shiera shrugged. “Why does it matter when and to whom I gave my maidenhead? No one pays attention to that in Lys or Dorne.”

“But you’re in Westeros, not in Dorne!” For a second Brynden lost composure.

“Is that so?” Shiera drawled.

She stood up too. Now they were separated by the large bed. Shiera did not cover herself, not ashamed of her nakedness, and Brynden realized that he wanted her again.

“I always tell the truth,” she said with a shrug. “Lies make me sick, so I’m telling you: I lost my virginity long ago. If you want to know his name, you can. It’s Aegor Rivers. I have to admit his blade is truly made of bitter steel.”

_Bitch!_

Brynden was shaking with fury. That bitch! He didn’t know what he wanted more: to break her neck or to throw her on the bed and have his way with her again.

Moving as if every bone in his body was broken, he grabbed his shirt and jerkin off the floor. _I’ve loved and waited for you for so long, and you’ve bedded Aegor! How could you? Little slut! Gods, why did you curse me so?_

“However, it’s none of your business whom I bedded or who was my first man,” Shiera continued.

He silently put on his shirt on sweaty body — so violently that the fabric snapped.

“You’re right, it’s not.” She interpreted his silence her own way. “If you wish to interrogate me further like one of your whisperers get out of my bedroom.”

Brynden fingered the engagement ring in the pocket of his jerkin and threw it onto the bed. It blinked blue and green and rolled closer to Shiera. She picked it up and looked at it.

“It’s a pretty thing,” she said. “But if you want to reproach me for giving my virginity to someone else I don’t want to touch your gifts.”

She threw the ring to him, but Brynden did not even attempt to catch it. It hit stone floor and rolled into a dark corner of the room. Aegor poisoned her with his words — as he did with Daemon. She was so young and believed his false words of love…

Why none of his whisperers ever told him that Shiera bedded with Bittersteel? Why no one told him that she had many lovers? Either Shiera was very good at keeping secrets, paying large sums to maids and guards, or spies were afraid to mention it.

Forget about the past, he said to himself firmly. Forget everyone she bedded before. She’s with you now, and it’s the only thing that matters! Brynden breathed out. The thought of Aegor still burned him, but he loved Shiera too much to lose her because of infidelity that happened several years ago. Could it be called an infidelity, anyway? She had no idea how much he loved her then, he proposed to her after the Redgrass Field, after Bittersteel fled Westeros in disgrace.

“It’s not a simple present,” Brynden said slowly. “It’s a wedding ring. Take it, Shiera. I can forgive your past. We can announce the engagement tomorrow.”

“But, Brynden…” she mumbled in confusion. “Is one night of love not enough for you?”

“What?!”

“You got what you wanted. I thought after this you’d stop pestering me to proposals of marriage.”

If they were not separated by the eight-feet-wide bed he would have strangled her with his bare hands.

“A whore from a brothel is more virtuous than you!” he shot back and walked out. She cried out in indignation.

A maid with pearl earrings brought a small parcel, wrapped in silk and smelling of wormwood, the next day and bowed out. Brynden weighted it in his hands, feeling the shape of a heavy signet ring.

Claiming to be unwell, he ordered a guard at the door not to disturb him and to not allow any visitors in. He spent several hours behind his desk in the darkened room with his head on his hands. Then he took a blank parchment and wrote a humble letter full of apologies, using all his eloquence.

Unopened letter was soon returned to him, and Brynden spent a sleepless night pacing his room. He fueled his anger, imagining Aegor fucking Shiera on snow-white sheets. Jealousy, hatred and fury ripped him apart. He drank his herb tea cup after cup, and when he looked in the mirror in the morning he realized that he looked like a walking corpse.

He battled his shameful cowardly love for a slut of royal descent, who was also his sister by the strange whim of gods, for more than a week, then he wrote to Shiera again, begging her to forgive him. The maid with pearl earrings returned it unopened — again.

Whisperers reported that Shiera behaved as usual: ladies, squires and knights still gathered in the rooms. They talked, listened to bards, some ladies played musical instruments while Shiera sang and received praise to her beauty and talents.

The next evening Brynden knocked loudly at her door, scaring a sleepy maid half to death. She let him in and led to Shiera’s bedchamber.

He paced impatiently in front of a fireplace. Only one candle was lit in the room, the maid left it in haste. The flame was flickering in the draft, creating weird shadows. When Brynden was about to burst into the other room without invitation the door opened, and Shiera stepped out, dressed in a Dornish green gown covered with a wrap, decorated with gold-cloth.

“I have no wish to see you, Brynden,” she said frostily. “I think I made it quite clear.”

“Can you forgive me?” He stepped forward and fell to his knees. “I’ve insulted you greatly, Shiera... Forgive me! Jealousy drove me mad. I have no claim over you, I’m not you husband, I’m only your lover... I shouldn’t have said those things that night... You are the only woman I dreamt of for so long... I won’t impose myself upon you. I won’t be jealous. Just let me be close. Let me love you!”

He grabbed her hand and pressed it to his left cheek. Her fingers were icy. Shiera sighed.

“Alright... You are forgiven. But remember, Brynden, this is our first and last quarrel”.

“How can I quarrel with you?” he whispered, peppering her hand with kisses. “You are the meaning of my life... I live for you, my love!”

 

**201 A.C.**

 

She preferred to meet with Brynden in her chambers, finding his modest rooms not cozy enough. He visited her two or three times a week, using a secret passage, leading from his rooms to Maegor’s Steadfast.

Shiera was drinking wine in front of a roaring fireplace, while Brynden sipped his brew, then they went to the bedroom and made love.

“Shiera!” She was lying next to him with hands crossed behind her head. Brynden gently cupped her face and made her look at him. “Marry me.”

“Brynden!” she drawled petulantly. “There you go again. A marriage of two royal bastards, what can be more ridiculous than that? Besides, Daeron will veto it. He will kick us out of the keep, and we will be destitute. We have nothing.”

“We will have everything,” Brynden said firmly. “A keep, wealth, children.”

“Children?” Shiera snorted. “Why would I need children? I can’t stand infants. Besides, I can die in childbirth. Nanny told me about how my mother suffered birthing me. What if I die too, trying to give life to our bastard?”

“I won’t let you die.” Brynden looked in her mismatched eyes and kissed her mouth.

“Will you drive death away with your black magic?”  she laughed, breaking the kiss. “They say there is a great price to pay for magic.”

“I’m willing to sacrifice my life for you,” he said solemnly. Shiera made a face.

“What an original reply!”

Brynden sighed and flipped onto his back. Bed curtain of grey silk, paved with pearls, was hanging from bed posts. We’ve been together for almost a year, and she never carried my child, or anyone else’s. Is it the moon tea? Or gods denied her an opportunity to have children?

“Where do you get moon tea?” he asked.

“That’s an unexpected question.” Shiera flopped on her belly and swung her feet in the air. “And what’s more, it’s so polite. Where are your manners, Lord Rivers? Well, I can satisfy your curiosity. My mother left me an inheritance in form of a number of Lysseni recipes and several books on herbs. One of the maids knows a place near the port, its owner sells rare herbs, spices and potions. He regularly sends me his goods so the Grand Meister can envy my supplies. I make it myself. How can it be otherwise? Why should I birth more bastards, especially Targaryen ones? Our father fathered enough of them, even the good king Daeron has been sour about it for years.”

Brynden smirked, imagining Daeron’s doleful face. He did cringe every time his new-found baseborn brothers and sisters were mentioned. Their father, Aegon the Unworthy, was, to put it politely, a ladies' man, and he acknowledged all his bastards on his deathbed.

“Moon tea doesn't always help. I am a living proof of that,” Brynden said.

“It's so strange,” Shiera caressed his funnel chest. “I never thought that your mother drank moon tea. Did she think two daughters were enough?”

“She thought father would always love her. Girls were meant to bind him to her. You know full well that our father was lusty and fickle man.”

“I barely remember him. He died when I was four years old. What happened to your sisters?”

“Both died young.”

“I'm sorry…” Shiera's cool hand moved lower.

They napped after. When Brynden woke Shiera's head was resting on his chest. Her silvery hair were covering both of them like a blanket. He admired his lover's profile. Her thin eyelids were almost transparent, bluish — like sea water in his hands.

“Stop poisoning yourself with moon tea,” he whispered. “Shiera, if you get pregnant there will be no bastard. I will marry you straight away. Our child will be born in a legitimate marriage.”

“Mmm?” she mumbled in her sleep.

Brynden shivered again. What sort of magic the gods granted Shiera that even the sound of her voice aroused him? He stifled his desire and kissed her damp temple.

“Will you marry if the child won't be yours?” she asked sleepily. Brynden grew cold.

She was doing it again! She loved to tease him, to make him jealous. No matter how hard he tried to hide or control his anger Shiera still felt it and enjoyed it like a cruel child.

_Shiera, why are you torturing me?!_

“Yes,” he said, hoping that she will not notice that his voice grew husky and alien. “Even more so if the child would be not mine. We'll wed, and I'll acknowledge him.”

“So noble…” Shiera yawned, turned and fell asleep.

Brynden carefully sat on the edge of the bed and covered her. She mumbled a name and curled up.

_I'll acknowledge another man's child, but before long he'll die in his cradle. I'll take care of that. When you'll recover from the loss you'll give me sons and a daughter who will look like you._

In the morning Shiera sat by the vanity and brushed her luxurious hair. Brynden watched her as if mesmerized: he could watch her dolling up forever.

“By the way, about being noble,” she said suddenly, and Brynden’s heart sank a little. Shiera had excellent memory and often surprised him by quoting almost word for word things he said several months ago. “About being noble and children. Tell me...”

“What?” He hated when Shiera made long pauses on purpose, trying to throw the opponent off balance.

“Why did you kill Daemon’s children on the Red Grass Field? The twins barely turned twelve, were they really a threat to you?”

Brynden grit his teeth. He stood up without uttering a word and dressed under Shiera’s mocking gaze.

“Oh, sorry, I think I’ve just hit your sour spot,” she added. Her hand with a mother-of-pearl comb froze in the air for a second. “You can refuse to answer.”

“Noble actions don’t win wars,” Brynden answered frostily. “And I had a choice between Aegon, who didn’t wear armour, and the Black Dragon’s armour. My arrow wouldn’t have done much damage to it so I chose an easy target. When Daemon kneeled over his sons’ bodies he opened up, and I could kill him with an arrow to his throat. His children’s death was clean and quick, I have nothing to blame myself for. Do you think Aegor would have spared my life if the battle ended in his favour? I had to kill Daemon because the rebellion lost its purpose with his death. We won the battle not when Baelor and his cavalry arrived, but when my arrow pierced Daemon’s neck.”

While he talked Shiera finished braiding her hair and stretched.

“Your story makes sense, but lacks chivalry. It’s probably the reason why everyone thinks it was Baelor, not you who won the battle of the Red Grass Field. I’m sorry that I brought up those unpleasant memories.”

Sulking Brynden took an empty goblet and filled it with the remainder of his potion from the flask. Shiera stealthily grabbed the goblet and drank.

“Shiera!”

She was concentrating on the taste. Brynden angrily took the goblet from her hand. There was little liquid left.

“Mmm... I think I figured out what your magic potion is made of,” she teased with a smile, and Brynden instantly forgot the previous topic.

“Do tell,” he played along.

“Sourleaf, kingscopper, mint, hawthorn and something else... I can’t make it out.”

“I’m in awe, Lady Shiera,” he bowed in jest. “Unknown ingredients are blueberries, rowanberries, leaves of Dornish magnolia vine and a drop of Evening Shadow.”

“You always refuse ale and wine, but drink your potion as if it were water.”

“I was born sickly and couldn’t stand sunlight. My skin always grew red in the sun and burst at creases. My joints hurt, my eyes were constantly inflamed. The meister of Raventree Hall and my mother created the potion that keeps me alive.”

“Oh!” Shiera’s eyes widened in sympathy. “Even with this brew you’re still very thin and pale. It looks like it doesn’t help much. I’ll check my mother’s recipes, maybe I’ll be able to find a better concoction. And I don’t like you adding Evening Shadow to it. It’s an intoxicating poison, you shouldn’t indulge.”

“True.” He was so touched by her concern that he had a lump in his throat. “But this potion has been tested for years. I would have been dead, or confined to a chair doubled up like senile old Connington, or blind like Simon Star-eyed.”

 

**202 A.C.**

 

“ _My love was beautiful as snow, her hair fair as moonlight…_ ” Brynden slowly combed Shiera's silky hair.

She tilted her head.

“I need to dismiss my maid. She's always pulling my hair, and your hands are so gentle! It's a pleasure to have you serving me. By the way, I didn't know you were fond of love ballads.”

“I heard this song for the first time during the feast when I first saw you as a woman grown and fell in love at once,” Brynden said, coiling silvery hair around his fist.

“Aww, such sweet sentimentality,” Shiera laughed. “But I like sea comparisons better. Bards and courtiers have become very skilled at praising my beauty, and if I start repeating all marine epithets for my every body part the sun would set before I'd finish.”

She was sitting on a cricket before the mirror with Brynden behind her. He tried not to look at his reflection in the mirror: he was pale and hollowed-eyed like a living corpse, with red birthmark covering half of his face and an empty eye socket covered with a strand of white hair. Shiera, on the other hand, looked dazzling: snow-white face with delicate chin and high cheekbones, full sensual lips and huge eyes — one bright blue, the other green. Brynden gave her a silver necklace with sapphires and emeralds to match her bewitching eyes. Sheira wore it all the time.

“They probably compare your hair with sea foam and mother of pearl,” Brynden snorted, still combing her hair.

“And with pearl veil, moonlight and silver thread,” Shiera added enthusiastically. “ _Silvery threads_ upset me, though, because usually it means grey hair. I won't age, away with silver threads! That fool of a bard ruined a fabulous evening with his awful poems!”

She grimaced in distaste. Brynden knew that Shiera could not stand talk of aging.

“Did you order to hang the fool?”

“Truth be told, I wanted to, even more so since before that he was praising my eyes, _One resembles sea in storm, the other is like swamp water, oh Shiera, you're my sea star_!” she recited displeased.

Brynden couldn't help himself and snorted.

“It's not funny!” Shiera flared up. “How can be call himself a bard and make such godawful verses? My fool Penny-buster can rhyme better! I ordered this fool to be thrown out of the castle. I was told he drinks himself into stupor in taverns of Flea Bottom and writes song about cruel blonde beauties.”

In the dead of the night Brynden made sure Shiera was asleep and cut off a lock of her hair. Later he braided it into a chain and tied it with a scarlet silk ribbon.

He always wore it under his clothes since then, taking it off only before visiting Shiera.

 

**209 A.C.**

 

It was a grim year, the year of the Great Spring Sickness. During the first weeks of the plague Brynden sent Shiera to Blackwoods' keep under his mother's care. She knew what to do to prevent the spread of disease and promptly closed the gates of the Raventree Hall to sick or healthy.

At first he exchanges letters with Shiera, then news came that Riverrun closed off from the world the plague arrived through a raven with a message from Oldtown. After that Brynden forbade maesters of the Red Keep on pain of death to free the birds and ordered to kill any arriving ravens.

He kept two letters from Shiera in his belt pouch. She wrote that she was a little bored in the country, but the Raventree Hall was a charming place and that Melissa Blackwood was still a beauty despite her age. Brynden read carefully every meaningless line about weather, monotonous entertainments of the keep (sewing, walking in the garden and godswood, knitting, reading aloud, playing the harp) trying to find a single proof that she missed him.

The plague didn't spare anyone. Death impassively reaped the lives of smallfolk and nobles. Knights and septons, fishermen and tradesfolk, paupers and blacksmiths, noble ladies and whores died every day. Almost all Silent Sisters died during the first month of the plague, while the few city watchmen still standing refused to dispose of the dead bodies that were laying in the streets.

In the beginning of the plague King Daeron the Good died, after him — his childless grandchildren by Baelor Breakspear, who himself died during the Ashford tourney. Daeron's third son, Aerys the Bookworm, took the throne and immediately appointed Brynden his Hand.

He was not happy about it. Aerys kept to his rooms in the barricaded keep, while Brynden had to deal with the crisis.

He had to make a lot of difficult decisions that turned smallfolk — already bitter and desperate — against him. He ordered to close down the port as the first step so no barge or any other ship could leave or enter the city. Then he sent prisoners to dispose of the dead bodies in the streets and dump them into the Dragonpit. He ordered city guards to wear cloth masks soaked in kingscopper, but they refused, thinking it was a whim of the new sorcerer Hand.

Brynden didn't catch the disease, rumour in King's Landing had it that Bloodraven sent a plague over Westeros. Telltale tongues lost their heads, they were displayed on the walls of Maegor's Holdfast. A quarter of Brunden's whisperers that survived spread a rumour that the Sickness was gods' punishment for the royal death at Ashford Meadow.

The structure of the small council changed so quickly that Brynden stopped gathering it and dealt with everything himself with the approval of reclusive Aerys. Courtiers were indignant behind his back, but he didn't care. He was more concerned about the disease not reaching the Raventree Hall.

He had no news from the keep for three months already, he longed to go to riverlands. Brynden found time to visit the Red Keep's godswood — only there he was able to regain strength and peace of mind. Once the Old One showed him a vision: Shiera, wearing a white dress, leaned against a weirwood in the Raventree Hall's godswood. She was wearing a necklace with sapphires and emeralds. Brynden's mother stood close and explained old gods to her.

The plague still raged in King's Landing, even though according to his calculations it should have subsided already. Brynden was sitting in the chamber of the small council, sorting out papers, reports and petitions. The High Septon died… A raging mob decimated long abandoned wine cellars… Deserters from gold cloaks… A ship from Lys tried to break through the siege, city corvettes burned it down… Dead bodies in Flea Bottom were not taken care of for a week, the reek of decaying flesh spread over the city…

He sighed and took his head in his hands, then drank from his flask. There was a knock on the door, Commander Edgar Waters of the city watch entered. He looked terrible and talked as if he were parched.

“Lord Rivers,” he bowed. “Dragonpit is half filled with dead bodies. They rot, my men refuse to come close to it to dump new bodies.”

“Did I not order to burn corpses when they reach the nine foot mark?” Brynden asked tiredly.

“Maybe you gave that order to my predecessor, Milord,” Waters answered. “There isn't enough firewood to burn them in this dragon grave now.”

“Wildfire,” Brynden said. “I ordered the head of Alchemists' Guild to bring fifty containers of wildfire to Dragonpit and start burning bodies.”

“The head pyromant died a week ago, Milord.”

“Even if all pyromants succumbed to plague send city guards to their storage rooms to load five carts of pots with wildfire. Treat them with care, one wrong move and the pot can explode in your hands. Dump all five cartloads into Dragonpit this evening. And make sure the level of bodies is never higher than nine feet, otherwise we'll never get rid of this disease!”

“Aye, Milord,” Waters said hoarsely and started for the door.

“Wait…” Brynden called after him. “What's the name of your assistant?”

“Captain Wod, Milord.”

“Pass him my message word for word.”

Waters glared at him with hatred.

“You appear to know everything, Lord Rivers,” he sighed. “You could share your plague medicine instead of burning bodies.”

Brynden stared at him — the head of gold cloaks lost his nerve.

“I'm sorry, Milord. It will be done.”

Brynden saw dark green flames of wildfire through the window that evening. Ghastly green light illuminated King's Landing, turning the city into a tomb.  


**211 A.C.**

 

Brynden often wondered why Shiera was the only bastard of Aegon the Unworthy to inherit his insatiable lust. She still shared her bed with other lovers, Brynden almost accepted it. At least, Sheira's flings were short-lived while they've been meeting for ten years already.

They tried to keep their meetings secret, but the affair was the talk of all Westeros. Many people thought that Bloodraven and Shiera were peas from the same pod: both were practicing black magic, him — to secure his power, her — to preserve her youth and beauty. Despite the fact that Shiera already turned thirty she looked like a young girl without a wrinkle on her white face.

Brynden bought her a house on the north side of the Hill of Rhaenys where nobles and rich merchants lived. There was a door hidden in a high stone wall, covered in ivy and vine. The key to it was always on a string around Brynden's neck. At night he left the Tower of the Hand through a secret passage, entered the city and went to Shiera's house.

“Lady Blount spreads rumours that you bathe in human blood,” he said, caressing Shiera's slender back. “Like your gorgeous mother did so many years ago.”

She was lying on her stomach as usual, resting her head on crossed hands. She looked not more than fifteen in dim candlelight.

“Did she not mention that it was blood of virgins?” Shiera snorted. “Even children know that blood of young untouched girls preserves beauty. Admittedly it's almost impossible to find an untouched girl in King's Landing. I must have a hard time keeping fresh blood in stock!”

“I can silence all wagging tongues,” Brynden remarked. “You only need to say a word.”

“People love gossip, that's part of our nature,” Shiera said. “You can't execute everyone who spreads vile rumours, otherwise the kingdom would turn into a deserted wasteland. You're the topic of gossip more often, by the way. Black magic, sorcery, bloody sacrifices to old gods…”

“There are few things I wasn't accused of,” Brynden smiled. “I was named the reason why Valarr's wife birthed dead twins.”

“Oh, poor Valarr… He courted me and wanted to propose. When his father announced that he was to marry a daughter of a Tyroshi triarch he cried a whole night through. He was ten years old then.”

“I think I was blamed for his death during the spring sickness. I'm used to being named as the reason behind every death in our family. It became a custom after the battle of the Redgrass Field. It's a wonder I wasn't accused of murdering Baelor.”

“Why not? Many people think that your magic directed Maekar's hand during that ill-fated tourney.”

“Gods…” Brynden chuckled bitterly.

This was gratitude of people… If it weren't for him Black Dragon would have ascended the throne and beheaded half of the lords of the realm, those who didn't want to see a bastard crowned. If it weren't for him only tenth of the capital's population would have survived the plague. If it weren't for him the realm would have fallen apart because Aerys the Bookworm had no wish to attend to matters of state, Brynden had to rule instead of him. If it weren't for him Aegor Rivers, constantly plotting against the lawful king, would have started a war in order to put another Blackfyre spawn on the throne.

He slaved away, trying to keep the Seven Kingdoms that balanced on the brink of rebellion together, and all he got in return was fear and hatred of both nobles and smallfolk.

Shiera stretched and cuddled to him.

“My love…” He whispered, touching her hair with his lips. “Please, marry me. I have everything now: power, title and wealth. Share it with me. Be my wife, Shiera! I'm tired of secret meetings at night.”

She raised her head, cupped her chin in her hands and looked at him gravely. Brynden's heart softened: so many years passed, but he still couldn't look in those unbelievable bewitching eyes. Sapphire and emerald — just like the jewels in the silver necklace.

“I don't want to marry,” she said, “you or anyone else. I want to be free.”

“Which means to sleep around?” Brynden asked coldly.

Everyone feared his anger. Everyone, but her.

“I've never lied to you,” she said calmly and touched his hollow cheek. “You've been jealous of me for years, but I can't change myself. I was born this way. I love amusements, feasts, tourneys and celebrations. I don't know how long I'll live so I'm enjoying every day and every hour. What if tomorrow another plague comes, and I get sick? What if my horse runs away and I break my neck? We don't know how much time gods gave us so I prefer to spend it on pleasant things. I'm not built for marriage, Brynden, when will you finally wrap your mind around that?”

He grabbed her neck with one hand, aware of delicate bones under his fingers. If he would squeeze tighter he could easily break them like fragile coral. Shiera smiled and stared at him defiantly, making no attempt to free herself.

“I bedded no woman since I saw you at that feast in the Red Keep seventeen years ago,” he said, tightening the grip.

“Too bad,” Shiera said, “no change at all. You haven't tried anything in your life, Brynden. Maybe you need to make up for the time lost. I won't be jealous, I promise.”

“I don't want to sample other bodies,” he said vexed and eased the grip. There were red finger marks on her white neck. “They won't bring me any joy. I need only you, Shiera. Only you.”

“I won't marry you, Lord Rivers! How many times…”

Brynden grabbed her shoulders, unceremoniously pushed her onto the bed and had his way with her. He took her, causing pain on purpose: he held her hands over her head, gripped painfully her breasts and hips, kissed her hungrily. When it was over he rolled off her, breathing heavily, and stared at dark green canopy.

“At moments like these I understand why everyone hates you,” Shiera remarked.

Shiera sat with her back to him and rubbed her wrists. Her tangles hair touched the bed, tickling Brynden's wet hip.

“And everyone loves you. Usually several times. We balance each other perfectly,” he said hoarsely. “I often ask myself what I have done to offend gods so that they cursed me with love for you!”

Shiera turned. A line crossed her smooth forehead.

“I gave you everything a woman can. What else do you want from me?”

He rose abruptly and pulled her closer. Shiera cried out in distress.

“I want you to become my wife!” he shouted and shook her, but she didn't utter a word.

Brynden felt remorse when he saw bruises on her soft skin.

“Sorry, I'm so sorry, my love…”

He carefully kissed corner of her mouth, neck, breasts. “I'm sorry, Shiera, I'm still mad about you,” he whispered, caressing her.

She didn't twitch a muscle.

“I know that you don't love me and never did. But I have enough love for both of us. You share my bed and drive me mad with jealousy. Admit it, you simply love to torture me!”

“Sometimes I think you offer me marriage only to make me pay later,” she said finally. “After the exchange of cloaks you'll lock me away in your tower — and farewell, merry feasts, bards, tourneys and hunts.”

She smiled coldly, and Brynden forced a smile in return.

 _Yes. I'd lock you so no one could touch you. I could force you to marry me, but I want your heart, Shiera. Not your body — you. Maybe, if we'll become a husband and a wife you could love me_.

Shiera learnt to read nuances of his moods long ago. She felt his remorse and pain and cheered up.

“Maybe I'll marry you if you become king.”

“I'm a true ruler of Westeros — without any trinkets.”

“Modesty is not your strong suite. Still, why you refuse the Iron Throne, _true ruler of Westeros_?”

“Because I have no right to claim it. I loved Daeron, and I'll never take the throne away from his children.”

“I won't be queen then,” Shiera feigned a sigh, stood up and went to the mirror.

She was displeased with the reflection and rubbed bruises on her arms and neck.

“When you have the bright idea to play _Outlaw who caught a maiden_ next time warn me in advance, will you?” she said.

“I'll give you a balm, bruises will disappear tomorrow.”

“I have my own.” She dug into her chest of drawers with jars and pots.

Brynden admired her naked girlish figure. It was a pity her silvery hair became three feet shorter, and now it only covered her buttocks.

“I'll have my way,” he said. “You'll become my wife even if I'll have to wait till my old age.”

“Are you sure you'll love me when my beauty would fade?” Shiera was genuinely surprised. “When I'll become bald toothless hag with sagging belly and breasts?”

“You'll always be the most beautiful woman in the world to me.”

 

 **219 A.C**.

 

They dined as usual in his room in the Tower of the Hand like a married couple. Shiera still look about twenty, and if Brynden were not an expert in herbs and potions he would have thought she was a witch like others did.

“Why are you smirking?” she asked, taking a sip of Dornish red.

“I remembered our first meeting in the gardens of the Red Keep. You gave me two flowers, a blue rose and a green bud. I was so entranced by your beauty that I could barely speak. You haven't changed a bit since then.”

“I remember that day too,” she laughed. “You seemed so old and ugly to me! A red birthmark on the cheek, pale as a corpse and skinny too.”

“You are prodigal of compliments as usual, my love. Five years later, though, my old age and ugliness didn't preclude you from inviting me to your bed.”

“You were courting me with such ardour that I succumbed. There were such curious rumours about you at that time!” she look up dreamily. “It's Bloodraven, red-eyed sorcerer, a monster who killed his own brother…”

“I hope your opinion of me changed since then.”

“I guess so,” she shrugged her naked shoulders.

She was still beautiful and young… Blue dress with shimmering green insets, silver necklace with sapphires and emeralds that Shiera always wore… White skin, flowing silvery hair… She still aroused his desire as if they had not spent more than a thousand nights together.

“But that doesn't prevent you from bedding Arwin Hightower, does it?” he asked in the same tone of voice.

The question caught her unawares, she blushed a little.

“Yes. What of it? Are you going to execute me like our father executed Bethany Bracken? Or are you going to execute Lord Hightower's son?”

“If I executed all your lovers noble houses of Westeros would have thinned greatly,” Brynden remarked acidly.

“You vowed not to be jealous of me,” Shiera reminded him. She collected herself enough and stared at him indignantly. “You shouldn't care whether I have other lovers or not.”

“Whyever not?” Brynden asked deliberately. “I gave you everything: money, jewels, a house near Old Square, a keep on the Blackwater. Could you maybe show me some respect and stop bedding youngsters half your age?”

“How sweet of you to remind me of that!” she hissed and flung a goblet at him.

Wine spilled over tablecloth of lace, the goblet hit a dish of roasted lamb and rolled to the floor.

Shiera forcefully pushed her chair back and stood up. She was flushed with anger, her eyes darkened. Brynden caught himself thinking that he still admired her. He smiled, realizing that he desired her.

“What?” she asked warily. “Are you laughing at me?”

“I wouldn't dare, Lady Shiera,” he smirked.

She came closer and raised her hand as if to slap him, but Brynden caught her palm and kissed it.

First he threw away dishes and tablecloth and took Shiera on the table, then he carried her to the bedroom.

“What are you doing to me…” she whispered. “It's a wonder you can be so composed outside of these walls. You barely look at me and never smile.”

“Would you like me to?” he asked without thinking, touching her hair out of habit.

“You always have the expression of _I'm busy with important affairs of state_ or _Fear me, traitors_ ,” Shiera grimaced. “You grit your teeth in your sleep and growl _Blackfirrre! Aegorrr!_ ”

Brynden gripped her shoulders and shook her so hard her teeth clattered.

“Don't you dare to joke about it! If Aerys listened to me and not his courtiers Aegor's head would have rotten away on a pike long ago!”

Anger filled his chest, he couldn't breathe. He stood up, went to a window and opened it. Cold night air prickled his overheated skin.

This wound was still too painful… Only several months ago Brynden crossed swords with Aegor, who returned to Westeros to enthrone another Blackfire pretender. This time Brynden won. He brought Aegor to the Red Keep in chains and insisted on death sentence for him at court. But soft-hearted Aerys didn't listen to him and replaced death sentence with exile to the Wall. Some noble sent a message to the Free Cities, and the ship that carried him to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea was intercepted. That nefarious viper escaped his punishment again and crowned yet another Blackfire spawn in Pentos.

Behind him clothes rustled — Sheira was dressing slowly.

“Whenever Black Dragon's children or Aegor are mentioned you forget about everything and become so tense as if you are waiting a deadly battle to start,” she remarked. “You forget about me completely. It means your hatred is much stronger than your love.”

 _Maybe. You're my only weakness, though, Shiera, and you know it full well_. He didn't turn around when she opened the bedroom door to leave.

“You asked my hand in marriage about fifty times,” she said in lieu of good-bye. “Make it a hundred and I will give you my consent.”

 

**220 A.C.**

 

Brynden heard a quiet knock on the door and opened the secret passage. A woman dressed in a cloak and a whisperer, who escorted her, entered. Brynden nodded to his man, dismissing him, and led Shiera to his rooms.

“What is the reason for such haste?” she asked, throwing back the hood. “Your strange servant was very insistent and disrespectful.”

“Because I ordered him to bring you here in secret and as soon as possible.”

“Why?”

Instead of an answer Brynden offered her a seat and filled a silver goblet with Dornish wine. He poured his brew for himself as usual.

“Because I wanted to celebrate your engagement,” he answered coldly.

“Oh, word travels fast.” Shiera looked down without touching the goblet. “Somehow I think that this is going to be a very long and quite unpleasant conversation.”

“I don't agree about the long part. I want to ask only one question.”

“Why widowed Edric Tyrell and not you?” she asked, touching the silver necklace Brynden gave her so many years ago.

“I've spent twenty five years trying to win your heart! But it looks like you don't have one.”

“We are too different,” Shiera said gently, caressing jewels in the necklace. “You prefer to rule from shadows, you like twilight, silence and intrigues while I love to shine. I need light and festivities. We could never be happy together.”

“And you think you'll be happy with Tyrell?”

“At least he's not a bastard and my half-brother.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“I don't love you, Brynden. Admittedly, I don't love Lord Edric either. But I'm forty and I need to settle down — with any man. But not with you.”

Brynden couldn't say if he still loved her or hated her. Probably, both. _I spent so many years courting you, Shiera. Love is gods' curse. I should have wished not death, but unrequited love for Aegor_.

She took the goblet, turned it in her hands and looked inside. She smiled a little and gulped it. Brynden's heart sank because he knew what would follow.

“I hope you'll find a girl worthy of you,” Shiera said, standing up.

She wavered and grabbed the back of a chair.

“Did you pour all your sweetsleep into this goblet?”

She was mocking him again. Brynden stepped closer.

He swooped her up and carried her to the bedroom. He put her on the bed and sat beside her. _You_ _knew the wine was poisoned and still drank it, didn't you? Shiera, why did you do that?_ She reached out and pulled out a pearl comb with weak hand and shook out her hair. It almost touched the floor.

Brynden silently took her hand. She looked at him with half-closed eyes and slowly said, carefully articulating every word, “I knew you'd do that sooner or later.”

Her fingers clasped in his hands were getting cold.

“This is good. Now I don't have to be afraid that I'll grow old… I was always afraid of that… Now I'll always be…”

 _With you, Brynden_ , he continued, knowing that Shiera wanted to say something else.

 

**233 A.C.**

 

Brynden was standing aboard _Golden Dragon_ that was heading to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, watching morning mist cover King's Landing, the Red Keep fading. Almost two hundred archers followed him to the Wall, his loyal men since the time of Raventeeth.

Preparing for the lifelong exile in the North, Brynden took with him only his weirwood bow and a chest with his most precious possessions: two dried roses, a chain of silvery hair interweaved with a discolored ribbon, a ring decorated with sapphires and emeralds. And a sealed box with Shiera's heart.

The last thirteen years it belonged solely to Brynden and he intended to keep it till his dying breath.


End file.
